Sketching Out Memories
by Choco-Loki
Summary: Sequel to PTP. Another year has passed, and life seems to have returned to normal for the children of the nations. That is, until the media shows up and question their parents' identities as countries. Warnings: past mpreg, crossdressing, yaoi.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Alright, we're back to a new start, the last start, of the CTD series. Thank you for those who've been reading it since it came out, but it's been awhile (since I'm working on TMH and AAN), not sure how many of you still remember this story, ahahaha—/shot. ^^;;

For those of you who've never read CTD/PTP, let's just say that the nations had children and they went on great adventures in the last two years discovering and understanding their parentage. Mother countries cross dress when they are in their girl mode (imagine Nyotalia, but that the countries are still guys and can change into it whenever they want to, like Pokémon or something), although they never actually genderbend. So past mpreg (I'm not going to get too much into it, and I well understand it's not possible, lol), crossdressing, yaoi, and all that. Warnings aside, established pairings are **RusAmer**, **FrUK**, **GerIta**, **Spamano**, **PruCan**, **Giripan**, **DenNor**, and **SuFin**.

**Aloisa Beilschmidt (18)—**GerIta  
><strong>Felicita Vargas Carriedo (17)—<strong>Spamano  
><strong>Evangeline Bonnefoy (17)—<strong>FrUK  
><strong>Alec Bonnefoy (18)—<strong>FrUK**  
>Mikhail Braginski (18)—<strong>RusAmer  
><strong>Adrian Braginski (18)—<strong>RusAmer  
><strong>Amelia Braginski (9 and 12 mo.)—**RusAmer  
><strong>Yukiko Karpusi (15-16, looks 8)—<strong>Giripan  
><strong>Melanie Beaumont—<strong>PTP character, moved to a private school  
><strong>Angelina Allred—<strong>CTD character, switched schools, harassed the kids two years ago with her dad, ex-head of California school board, **Thomas Allred**.

By the way, sidestory **Little Puzzles** is up, and another one is in the making for **iHeartNargles**, who won the icon contest. I will try my best to make every chapter relatively long to shorten the chapter count of the overall story, but instead of updates every two weeks it may take a little bit (a lot /double shot) longer. And after this chapter, although the storyline (for me) has been finally organized into something relatively clearer than before, I am literally going to be flying solo with this story. Who knows what's going to come? XD Also, **Weirdgirl012** has been so kind as to draw another adorable fanart, this time with CTD-cosplay-Vocaloid. Please go check it out on the CTD/PTP website (link in my profile)!

I sincerely apologize if I cannot reply to your reviews, I do read all of them, however, and I'm grateful that you're reading this story! ;A; Anyways, please enjoy!

EDIT: Okay, I'm getting writer's constipation. This chapter took forever to finish.

**Sp/grammatical errors, DM linked words, and plot holes will be fixed after publication, like always.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p><em>Friday, March 30, present, Felicita's room, 5:02 P.M…<em>

"Evan…in your honest opinion, do you think I'm average?"

Evangeline Bonnefoy had her chin on Felicita Carriedo's desk, staring at the wall. Last summer, she had decided to cut her hair short and straighten it _and_ dye it auburn, which resulted in her father literally fainting when she arrived back home. _It was good while it lasted_, she thought. When Evangeline spewed out her school troubles to Yukiko via email, Yukiko told her that "a change is a chance to start life anew" (which, considering that Evangeline had trouble comprehending Yukiko's old-people morals, didn't make much sense). Eventually she interpreted the advice as a visit to the salon, given that she believed two years of impossible trips to the past plus finding out that her parents weren't even human were pretty good reasons to "start life anew", or whatever Yukiko had originally meant. But it had been nearly eight months since that time, and her blond curls were in the process of replacing the darkened parts which, to her, was quite a nuisance.

"What do you mean, 'average?" she asked. Most of her accent had been lost, although once in a while certain British slang would creep up on her during heated conversations.

The two had been loitering around in Felicita's room after agreeing that their history group project could wait another hour.

"Average, like directionless, no talent. Like, you see me and you go in your head, 'That person is going to end up in a no-name college with a useless major and spend the rest of her life in a cubicle in some dead-end job, fetching coffee for her boss on the side'," Felicita answered from her bed, raising her head briefly to wait for Evangeline's reply.

Evangeline wondered why Felicita had so many doodles of tomatoes taped on her wall.

"No," she answered in the same tone.

Felicita's head plopped back on the pillow, puffing out a short sigh.

"I should have a talent," she argued tiredly.

"Sure you do," Evangeline said. "You can grow tomatoes in a day—"

"A _useful_ talent."

She tapped her fingers on the table.

"Who says gardening isn't useful?"

Felicita frowned.

"For farmers, yeah—"

Evangeline threw her a meaningful look.

"Why are you so worried?" she asked.

Felicita sat upright and crossed her arms, pulling a face.

"Aloisa and Alec got into that design college they wanted, Mikhail and Adrian are going to…well, I don't remember, but it must be some prestigious place I've never even heard of—"

"They're going to Boston," Evangeline said quietly, but added, "But they're probably going to end up wasting the night away playing World of Warcraft. Come on, Feli, it's not like you're hopeless—"

"My GPA is average, my SAT scores are average, and I'm ending my third year of high school with most of my friend scattering across America." She loosened her ponytail and tucked a stray strand of hair behind one ear. "I want to be different."

She hadn't meant to sound whiny, but the sentence somehow came out that way.

"You could become a city and live forever until the sun burns out," Evangeline said. "That's different."

"Not exactly what I had in mind," the brunette replied. "I'll rephrase it: I want to make a difference in the world."

"Adrian's hero complex must be rubbing off," she said blandly. "How do you plan on doing that?"

Felicita's shoulders sagged. "I don't know."

Evangeline pulled herself up and rested her chin on her hand. "Why do you want to be different?"

_Because next to you and Aloisa and everyone else I feel lost. I'm happy for them, of course, but sometimes…_

"I just don't want to take the easy way out," she said finally.

After a short silence, Evangeline spoke up, "Well _I_ think you're fine the way you are." She added, "Speaking of Adrian, at least we know he'll be flying back every summer if he doesn't want my brother to chop off his head."

Felicita moved to the windowsill, gazing out at a particularly noisy delivery truck.

"I can't believe Jack Howell asked Aloisa to dinner," she said distractedly.

Evangeline huffed, "I can't believe she doesn't know it's a date."

"That too."

"Mikhail must be pissed."

"No kidding." Her eyes followed a shadowy figure in suspicion until she realized that the man was the UPS delivery guy. "He can always ask her out for senior prom. If he doesn't beat Jack Howell up by then, I mean."

Evangeline gave her a wry smile. "You know who you could be if you wanted to be different?" she ventured.

Felicita turned her head, confused. "Who?"

"Martha Stewart. She gardens, right?" Evangeline paused, pondering. "Without the going to jail part, of course."

She had to smile at that.

"Right," she said. "Let's go down for dinner. My dad's making some paella pasta thing today."

"You know what? I found my cell phone in my dad's storage box in the attic. I thought I'd lost it in 1960." Evangeline slid off the chair and stretched. "I feel bad that I'm coming over so often and leeching off of you and your parents."

"I don't mind," Felicita laughed, gliding down the stairs. "My dad likes having people over."

"Great, because my mum insisted on cooking today, and Dad isn't coming back from France until tomorrow."

* * *

><p><em>Saturday, March 31, present, nearby café, 2:12 P.M…<em>

Felicita watched a bead of water run down her glass before sipping at her juice. She didn't think they'd met up as a group since senior year for the four other teens began; now that the panic about universities, exams, and Melanie Beaumont (who had, by some miraculous power high above, moved to her other house across the U.S.) had passed, they'd ended up back to the café where Alec had brought them to two years ago.

The days had gone on as normally as it had before the kids had taken that flight across the country, or at least Felicita liked to think so. Their families still looked as if they'd never aged a day since their twenties, but Aloisa wasn't that girl who burst out in random squeals over manga anymore, and Alec's accent had diminished over time. Mikhail's expression wasn't as daunting as it had been back in sophomore year, and Adrian seemed happy enough to have Alec by his side. There was always something familiar and comforting about reminiscing, but this time Felicita wondered if she was being selfish by wishing everything to be the way it was.

School matters aside, there had appeared to be a dubious issue regarding theft (of what kind, Felicita wasn't sure), although she could've easily misheard, for she'd summed up that conclusion from her parent's quiet conversations during the night. Her father had been called back to Spain for a business meeting that had lasted two weeks, and right after that it had been Aloisa's dad who'd received a call and had to leave immediately for Berlin (and had not returned home yet). Upon Feliciano's questioning, however, Ludwig seemed as uncertain of the situation as him, for he only mentioned vaguely that his boss wanted to see him in person to inform him on a chain of viral attacks on the five different countries' government database that were discovered in time but could not be traced back, and that was all Aloisa could manage to hear from the other room.

The only two nations that weren't called away were America and Russia. In the beginning of summer vacation last year, Alfred had had another child (Adrian and Mikhail had an unspoken understanding that they'd rather not wonder about the mechanisms of it all, lest risk forming any images in their heads that could not be unseen), a little girl whom he insisted be named Amelia in place of an unpronounceable Russian name Ivan probably had had in mind ("Like Amelia Earhart!" he'd said excitedly to Arthur. "She's going to be a heroine and an adventurer, like me!"). Felicita had met Amelia a couple of times—the first being the hospital, when she first opened her eyes, revealing a deep, amethyst color. Amelia, in her opinion, looked every bit like Ivan, with her violet eyes and pale skin and thin, ashy-blond curls, right down to a sweet little smile she suspected might turn out to be creepy once she hit kindergarten. Katyusha seemed much taken with her new niece and cried when she saw the girl (then again, she cried when a button popped off her blouse); Natalia, according to Adrian, was surprisingly fond of Amelia and refused to put her down (unfortunately, that also meant that she wasn't going to fly back to Belarus until the end of the school year).

It was also as if someone had extracted America's stubbornness and temper and compressed it all into Amelia; she liked to climb on tables and on beds and on cribs and over cribs; she hated puffed rice but Cheerios were okay; she liked to play with Alfred but mostly with Ivan; and she would bawl if her bunny plushie that Arthur made her got thrown into the wash. But as preoccupied as Alfred and Ivan were they, too, had heard about the anonymous hacker. Although seeing as there was no real information having been accessed, the concerns died down (even though the World Summit was pushed back in case of "further unforeseen mishaps"). And that was always worrisome.

"We haven't been here since the lady kicked Alec out," Felicita commented.

Alec crossed his arms, leaning back on Adrian on the couch.

"She did not kick me out," he said, clicking his tongue in irritation.

Adrian shut down his laptop and stowed it away in his bag, shrugging.

"I think you're thinking of the other café," he told Felicita.

The blond scowled, straightening himself away from Adrian until the other pulled him close again. Alec looked away in annoyance.

"Whatever you want to call it," he said. "How was I supposed to know that girl would blow a fuse when she saw me?"

Aloisa Beilschmidt looked at the two in amusement. "You mean the one from sophomore year who thought you were dating her?" she inquired.

"That's the one. You know, I never did find out her name."

Evangeline rolled her eyes, fiddling with something in her lap. "Aren't you a charmer," she quipped.

"To certain people, yes," he agreed, unwinding himself from Adrian's restraining arm. "What have you got there, Evan—_agh_!"

His sister eyed him suspiciously before raising the object and nearly blinding the two boys with a flash of brilliant white light. The Polaroid made a fizzing noise in her hands and deposited a black-and-white photograph onto the table; Evangeline flapped it around and examined her handiwork, ignoring Alec's indignant protests.

"_What was that for_?"

Evangeline shot him a glare. "Lower your voice. Do you want to get kicked out of another café?"

Alec hissed, "How many times do I have to stress that it was that girl who screamed first—"

"Here," she said, pressing the developed picture in his face. "A reminder of 1960 for you."

"Where did you get the camera?" Mikhail piped up.

Evangeline directed the lens at him and snapped another picture, shaking the Polaroid when the photo refused to print out.

"The basement—"

At that exact moment, Alec flung the photo back in shock, plopping it into Evangeline's teacup.

"You got it from the basement?" he said in horror. "Do you want to send us on a trip to the Stone Ages?"

His sister pursed her lips and fished the picture out while Mikhail recovered from his momentary stupor.

"Mum gave it to me, for your information," she said. "It's not dangerous, goodness…"

"Well, that was _exactly_ what Adrian's mother said about that alien thing I found under Adrian's bed after it jumped on my face—"

"You two were probably doing something stupid or risqué," she countered flippantly. "And there are no aliens, for the last time—"

"Just like there are no unicorns," Alec muttered darkly. "And we weren't doing anything that time…" His mind whirled back to that disastrous day—

* * *

><p><em>A few weeks ago...<em>

_"My parents are out this afternoon," Adrian breathed into his ear. "Wanna come over?"_

_So he did. And he'd let Adrian push him into his room and onto the floor and when he turned his head to the side between trailing kisses Alec realized something was staring back at him from under the bed._

"_Wha—" Alec got up, squinting into the dark. "What is that…?"_

_Adrian mouthed along his neck, pausing briefly when he noticed that Alec didn't respond. _

"_What are you looking at?" he asked. _

_A set of red orbs blinked at him, and Alec felt his breath catch in his throat. _

"_What's under your bed—_oh my God!_" _

"_Fucking limey!"_

* * *

><p>Regrettably, Alec was remembering it more clearly now. He also recalled that when the thing leaped out he'd accidently backhanded Adrian as he rolled away and hit his head on the nightstand. Not dangerous, his ass…<p>

"We weren't…doing anything…" Alec repeated.

Mikhail cocked his head, as if hit by a thought.

"So that was what I heard that day," he said conversationally. "I thought it was from my video game."

Adrian turned to him, stunned.

"_You were home_? How much did you hear?"

Mikhail sent him a bored look.

"Two idiots screaming," he answered.

While Adrian gave a mental sigh of relief, Evangeline placed the camera in Felicita's hands and pulled on Aloisa's arm. "Alright," she said. "Before you four go off on your college adventures I want to take a group picture."

"As long as that thing doesn't make James Chase appear…"

"Give it a rest, will you?"

Alec looked as if he wanted to spit a quick comeback, but his mouth clamped shut when Adrian pressed his lips on his temple and pulled the blond on his lap, making room for the two girls. Washington D.C. seemed like a lifetime away, from the day Alec slapped James Stanton in a restaurant full of people, from when Mikhail had gotten angry at Aloisa, from when Adrian broke his arm and realized he'd fallen in love, to the meeting room and Angeline Allred. It was as if they'd been picked up in a whirlwind of events and changed overnight. Or rather, Felicita just never noticed.

_What about me?_

Evangeline unintentionally shoved Aloisa onto a rather appreciative-looking Mikhail as she was squeezing onto the couch, trying to get in the range of the shot. Aloisa was bright, practically radiant, as she gestured for Felicita to come over. Somewhere in the middle, Mrs. Harlen had grown up.

"Come on, Feli!" she urged. "Sit next to Adrian!"

_What do I want to be?_

Felicita's finger hovered over the button and pressed it down, her mouth curving into a small smile as the Polaroid flashed.

* * *

><p><em>Sunday, April 1, present, Felicita's backyard, 5:11 P.M…<em>

Felicita saw her dad picking tomatoes in the backyard again. She tacked her Polaroid photo on the wall and ventured downstairs. She tapped his shoulder warily.

"Hi, Dad."

Antonio turned his head, his face breaking out in a smile as showed Felicita the contents of his basket.

"Look, bebé, Papa's got a lot today!" he said, beaming. "I'm going to make something good for dinner today!"

Felicita took the basket from him and waited as he placed more tomatoes inside. She shuffled on one foot, nervous.

"What's special about me, Dad?"

He didn't even look up. "Everything."

"No, I mean…" She racked her brain for the right word. "What jobs do you I'd be best at?"

"Anything you want," he replied lightly. "A marine biologist. A tomato farmer. A computer engineer. A scientist. A surgeon—"

At this rate, her dad was going to spew every known occupation to man. She exhaled silently.

"What's it like being Spain?" she tried again.

Surprisingly, Antonio froze midway cutting off a tomato stem. He straightened and took his hat off, brushing his hair back with one ungloved hand.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his expression unreadable.

Truthfully, she was a bit uncertain of what she meant herself. "I don't know, what's it like being a country, I guess…"

He paused for a moment, thinking.

"It depends, really. Sometimes you feel powerful, like you're on top of the world. Creating great empires and conquering new lands…I suppose I thought it was satisfying until you realize nothing is eternal. Empires rise and fall; people will eventually die…" He shrugged, his tone brightening somewhat. "It's different now," he said, ruffling his daughter's hair and taking the basket from her. "I've got you and your Mama. That's all I need."

"But—"

Her pocket buzzed then, and Felicita hurriedly answered her phone. "Hello?"

"_I hope you didn't give me a fake number. This is Felicita, right?"_

She blinked. "Ian?"

On the other end, she could hear the boy chuckling.

"_Good to hear your voice, sweetheart," _he said cheerily. _"How's high school going for you?"_

"Don't call me that. What do you need?"

"_I'm doing well in college, thank you for asking."_

"Uh-huh."

"_I called your home phone, and a very angry lady answered, 'You better hang up before I find out exactly who the hell you are, bastard!' Her words exact."_

"That would be my Mom."

"_I've always wondered where your lovely personality came from."_

She could almost see that smirk plastered on his face. "What do you want, Ian? I have to help my dad with dinner soon."

"_Of course, of course, straight to the point. I will be flying in a few days to California for an internship, and I was wondering if you'd be so kind…eh, I guess I should stay on your mum's good side. Let me rephrase: I was wondering if Your Majesty would grace this lowly—"_

"I am going to hang up, Ian."

"_Wait! I meant, would you like to have dinner with me when I come over?"_

"…you know, you can be considered a legal pedophile right now."

"_Just as friends," _he assured. _"Unless—"_

"I'll think about it."

"_Brilliant. You think you can hitch a ride from your friends and meet me at the airport?"_

"No."

"_That's what I thought. Oh, and Grandfather sends his regards to Alec."_

"Are you serious?"

"…_Nope. He just about had a heart attack when I told him I met _the_ Alec Bonnefoy—"_

"Isn't it one in the morning over there?"

"_Yep."_

"Good night, Ian."

"_Hold on—"_

Antonio looked at her strangely. "Who was that?"

Felicita shoved the phone back into her pocket.

"Wrong number."

Because if she actually agreed to go, Felicita had a sinking feeling that her mother would knife Ian in the guts.

* * *

><p><em>Sunday, April 1, present, Amelia's room, 6:21 P.M…<em>

Mikhail stared at his baby sister. Amelia stared back at him with equal concentration, her little hands balling into fists.

"Do you think Aloisa will say yes if I ask her to prom?" he asked flatly.

Amelia batted the railings of her crib with her hands.

"Story," she said.

"You want me to tell you a story?" Well, he had nothing else on his hands, so he might as well. "Okay. I can tell 'Adrian and Alec'. In fact, I will act it out."

Mikhail cleared his throat and placed his both hands on his cheek, gazing adoringly skywards at the ceiling. "Oh, Adrian!" he said, his voice fake and high pitched and in a horrible French accent. "What am I to do with myself? I love James-what's-his-last-name-Mikhail-cannot-remember-right-now, but I love you, too, even though I'm not going to say it out loud because you'd rather me swooning into your arms when you save me from heavily armed men!"

Amelia gurgled.

His voice switched to a deep rumbling, "Alec, because I am a hero I will fight my own dad who doesn't even know I'm his son and break my arm in the process like a moron. But you love me anyways, so it all works out." Then as Alec, "Of course I do! I will love even if you are a moron and can't ever beat your dashingly handsome brother in World of Warcraft!"

Amelia grinned toothily, waving her arms and trying to imitate her brother.

He continued, "Come, Alec! I will sweep you off your feet and we'll ride off into the sunset on my pony and live happily ever after—"

"What the hell are you doing?"

Mikhail froze and turned his head robotically at Adrian, who was gaping at him from the doorframe. "You are supposed to be out on your date."

"Yeah, I came back for my cell phone."

"…oh."

Amelia had rolled on her back, blithely chewing on her blanket.

* * *

><p><em>Sunday, April 1, present, Greece, the ruins, 5:30 P.M…<em>

Yukiko Karpusi sat up in the grasses and looked ahead, wondering why in the world the half-unearthed, ancient ruins of Greece were fifty feet away from a perfect, undisturbed acre of grass where she and her father were. A kitten climbed over her dad's stomach and swatted at her legs; Yukiko held it up and placed it on her knee, distracted. Her dad had fallen asleep ten minutes after he brought her to see the ruins. A new record.

There was something uneasy about today, she felt, as if an ill wind was waiting to blow over. The cat nudged her finger, its fur soft and smooth. It was probably nothing. After all, if there were something amiss England would be the first to realize.

Yukiko put the cat back on Heracles's tummy and hiked up the hill to the ice cream vendor.

* * *

><p><em>Sunday, April 1, present, Aloisa's house, 6:08 P.M…<em>

"I'm home, Mom—"

Feliciano's voice rang down from upstairs—a softer, more feminine voice, which meant that he had reverted back to dressing up like he did two years ago. Which still came as a shock sometimes to Aloisa, especially how Feliciano can so effortlessly look and act like a girl when he wanted to.

"Great! I just got a call from your dad. He said he's coming home tomorrow!" he gushed enthusiastically. "And I need to get some groceries. Want to come along?"

"Sure, why not." She hung her bag on the hook behind the closet door. "Hey, Onkel—" She stopped, looking at an unconscious Gilbert sprawled out on the couch in front of a running TV. "Is he drunk again?"

Feliciano hurried down the stairs, tucking a note into his pocket.

"He'll be fine, bambina, let him sleep. Come on, the place will close in an hour!"

He placed a hand on Aloisa's shoulder and steered her outside again. Gilbert snorted and turned over in his sleep, mumbling about beer and something or the other about Canada. The television flashed on mutely, the anchorwoman's lips moving as the captions below displayed her words—

…_two days ago, we have received from an unknown sender papers documenting what seems to be the history of different countries. However, attached to the package are the names of several international government officials who are believed to be physical personifications of nations, according to the evidence mailed in from the anonymous source— _


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **It has been over a month since my last update, butthank you all for the favs/reviews/alerts! Even if I couldn't reply to all your questions, I really do read each one, and I will try to clear up the confusion to the best of my abilities as SOM progresses. Sorry that this took an eternity to finish, but god, school's coming up and I had some sort of writer's block. ;-; SOM may or may not be updated once a month, due to school or me writing AAN on the side, too, so…who knows.

Haha, Alec. Prince of Tennis or something. oTL|||

**Notes**: -**Weirdgirl012** is going to draw out a SOM doujin, or at least the parts she wants to, since I know my stories can drag on and on. XD Thanks a million! By the way, first page is up and on the CTD/PTP website! ouo  
>-For those of you reading <strong>AAN<strong>, I am here to inform you that _that_ project hasn't been blown to oblivion yet, so you can expect more soon! For the TMH readers, I will desperately try to get another chapter up when I receive an epiphany or something; I started it for my friend and Goddammit, I am going to finish it, be it in three weeks or three years. But honestly, right now I have no clue what the hell is going to happen to it. I have the plot down and all, just haven't got around to writing.  
>-<strong>ou8smileydeath<strong> wrote a lovely sidestory for CTD, RusAmer (I believe this was done before I posted Little Puzzles, btw). The way it's written is just adorable, the interactions between the parents and the kids, and the last line made me smile. Go check it out at my profile! ^^  
>-I am very slowly (key word: <em>very<em>) working on another crossover fic: **Arthur's Year of Cooking Dangerously**, a five-chaptered USUK Hetalia/Julie & Julia. But…I've got that Kate and Leopold one on hold and AAN and TMH (TMH is kinda dead, lols) and sidestory and fffff— I'll make it work somehow.  
>-I changed my mind I am so sorry ;-; I'll post the sidestory as a chapter in SOM. It will be up next. headdesk

Anyways, sorry about the not-so-action-packed chapter and have fun back in school!

**SOM Character Guide**:

**Aloisa Beilschmidt: **senior, age 18, blond, blue eyes, knows a little bit of German and some Italian, GerIta  
><strong>Felicita Vargas Carriedo<strong>: junior, age 17, olive green eyes, brown hair, knows a bit of Italian and Spanish, afraid of dogs, Spamano  
><strong>Adrian Braginski<strong>: senior, age 18, silver hair, blue eyes, Nantucket ahoge, lived in Russia before, RusAmer  
><strong>Mikhail Braginski<strong>: senior, age 18, elder brother, blond bangs, violet eyes, Ivan-aura, lived in Russia before, RusAmer  
><strong>Amelia Braginski<strong>: birthday on June 15, approx. 9 ½ m.o., violet eyes, ashy-blond curls, RusAmer  
><strong>Alec Bonnefoy<strong>: senior, age 18, blond hair, sort of England-eyebrows, lived in London before, FrUK  
><strong>Evangeline Bonnefoy<strong>: junior, age 17, green eyes, blond hair, lived in London before, FrUK  
><strong><br>Ellen Mercer: **senior, age 17, red hair tied up, Aloisa's good friend**  
>Angelina Allred<strong>: blond hair, hates Aloisa, she and her father moved away when Thomas (dad) got fired by Alfred, current status unknown.  
><strong>Lisa Berns<strong>: psychotic babysitter cover, burned part of Felicita's school after the kids' departure in CTD, ex-messenger for Russian underworld, used to be Natalia's personal assistant until she lost her marbles, current status unknown.  
><strong>James Chase<strong>: 1960!character, blond hair, light brown eyes, used to be enamored with Alec, Ian's grandfather, assumed to have married Jane.  
><strong>James Stanton<strong>: Alec's ex-boyfriend, goes to a university in the US.

**Yukiko Karpusi**: looks to be about 6-7, but is currently 15-16 age-wise (human birthday December 2) and represents the Kansai district, Giripan  
><strong>Hanna Oxenstierna<strong>: blond, seems to understand her parent's identity, age 11, SuFin  
><strong>Eirik Køhler<strong>: quiet boy with sailor hat, seems to understand his parent's identity, age 10, DenNor  
><strong>Annelise (Anne) Køhler<strong>: friends with Hanna and Yukiko, seems to understand her parent's identity, age 9, DenNor

**Sp/grammatical errors and DM linked words will be corrected after publication. I think I caught most of them, hopefully. **

**Chapter Summary: **Aloisa watches TV, Lovino and Antonio talk and deal with a nosy reporter, Evangeline wants to research more on time traveling, and Alec and Adrian are not on such good terms.

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

><p><em>Monday, April 2, present, classroom, 11:45 A.M…<em>

Once Evangeline had asked Aloisa whether if it was awkward that she was taking World History when their parents were, well, the world, for lack of a more logical explanation. And although Aloisa will admit, listening to the teacher lecture about the Special Relationship and Germany's severe financial problems after the First World War did sound strangely inappropriate (as if she'd caught Adrian's and Alec's mothers together in bed or something—that was one scene she could've lived without ever envisioning), but when it came down to it, no one else read the textbooks the way she interpreted them.

Twice a week the teacher would turn on her antique of a television to the news to "further educate her students on the current events using up-to-date materials", as she'd so gracefully put it. But what really happened was that after the television was flipped on and the room went dark, said teacher retreated behind her desk and look fixedly at her laptop for the rest of the class period, while one third of the class dutifully took notes and the rest pretended to be listening. Today, Aloisa decided to just write down exactly what the newscaster was saying to pass off as notes until she realized that, while rereading what she'd penned, that sentences were more or less the same.

But it wasn't as if her teacher was really going to _read _every single letter. To her, a block of text was the equivalent of a grade-A essay. The employment of this technique tapered on for another ten minutes or so until Ellen Mercer from behind her seat tapped her shoulder and slid a note underneath her elbow.

_How did the date with Howell go? _the note said.

She couldn't understand why everyone called it a date. Even her family referred to it as a date; her dad doing so with a frown and multiple warnings about kidnappers and such, her mother with big smiles and eager questions, Gilbert with his snide remarks and mocking laughs. It wasn't a date. She thought of it more as a monetary payment for those meticulous, _free_ tutoring classes she'd been so foolish to agree to when Jack had proposed it. Actually, she wouldn't have said yes, if not for the math teacher coming up to her and asking it as a favor (extra credits and all).

_Not a date, _she scribbled back. _And it was okay. _

If okay meant that Jack Howell stared at her face (at least she thought he was staring at her face) while she ate and had been overly helpful helping her into her seat and seemed to be expecting something when they went for a walk afterwards (he insisted). The note returned almost immediately.

_You know, half the girls in the school want Howell to take them to dinner._

_Okay, _she wrote.

Ellen passed the paper back, now with a doodle of a girl with blue eyes holding hands with a stick-figure of a boy who looked a lot like Howell. She muttered under her breath and pushed the note to the side of her desk, much to Ellen's chagrin.

For another ten minutes Aloisa concentrated on a dark spot on the wall that she guessed came from someone's lunch, and it wasn't until Ellen tapped her arm again did she turned around.

"What?"

"The TV," Ellen said, the lights from the screen flickering on her befuddled expression. "Isn't that your dad?"

Before Aloisa could respond, the sharp voice of a particularly eager news anchor fizzed from the television, going on excitedly about an airport and breaking news and gesturing to the loud, rustling crowd behind her. The camera zoomed in on a blond man in a hat, unmistakably Aloisa's dad, especially now that Aloisa could hear his voice ringing from the TV, trying to push his way through the frenzy of reporters and avoid the microphones being shoved at his face at the same time. Just as Ludwig's eyes caught sight of someone and widened in shock, the camera swiveled to another location, pointing directly at a young, very panicked man a few feet away, who appeared even more shaken as a new onslaught of reporters surrounded him; but as frightened as he was, he managed to shout out a single word, a name—

"_Ludwig!_"

Aloisa's mouth fell open, then hastily closed as she watched her dad reach Feliciano and immediately throw his fedora on the Italian, as if to shield him from the camera flashes.

"That's…" Her dad had looped his arm around Feliciano's shoulders, steering him to the exit and shooting steely looks at the various cameras. The last shot, a perfectly clear view of Ludwig, froze on the screen and became projected onto the background of a pair of seated news anchors, the two's avid discussion punctuated by the black and white subtitles running down the bottom—

_Impossible. Unscientific. Illogical. _

The rest of the class stared in confusion at the television, wondering what had happened to the previous channel and debating whether or not they should be jotting down notes. The TV shrieked, booming out the whiny voice of the first reporter for every single person in the room to hear: _"Although it is true that investigations are still underway, it is clear that, nation personifications do exist and that the two men we've just seen, Ludwig Beilschmidt and Feliciano Vargas, are, respectively, the representatives for the countries Germany and Italy—ah, _Northern_ Italy, excuse me. As to the matter how this is possible—"_

"Aloisa—what's the matter?" Ellen's gaze shifted anxiously from her friend to the screen. "That's not really your dad, is it? It's just a coincidence—"

But the name displayed at the corner of the screen glared at her, daring Aloisa to prove it wrong. "But that's…"

The door burst open and Gilbert stomped in, surveying the darkened classroom for Aloisa until his eyes landed on the television. With long strides, he shut the television off and faced the students, evidently agitated. For a total of ten seconds, the class gaped at him, and Gilbert gaped right back.

"That was not real," he proclaimed awkwardly. "That was a hoax, and if any of you brats want to suggest otherwise, I will beat your asses to a pulp." He looked around, but clearly his eyes were still adjusting to the dimness. "Now can anyone one of you tell me where the hell Aloisa is?"

The teacher rose from her seat the same time as Aloisa, but she didn't dare to approach Gilbert directly. Her hand twitched along the wall until she reached the phone, picking up the receiver and pressing it to her ear. In all her years of teaching, she had never anticipated such a situation. But then again, this was Gilbert.

"W-who are _you_? You are disrupting my class, so you better leave before I call the police!" Her finger poised over a button, trembling slightly.

"Wait!" she said quickly. "He's not a stranger! He's my uncle!"

"There you are!" Gilbert moved to her side and began throwing her pens and papers into her backpack, slinging them over his shoulder and grabbing the girl's wrist despite her protests. "Well," he said, turning to the stunned teacher conversationally. "Aloisa won't be coming back to class today, or tomorrow, maybe not in a while, until we can get things sorted out…"

The teacher still looked uncertain. "But—"

"Don't worry, lady. She might not look as sexy as me—" ("_Excuse me_?") "—but we're related And we'll sign out at the office and oh." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't turn the TV back on. Seriously."

"I—"

"What is going _on_?" Aloisa said, trying but failing to pry her arm away. "Why are Mom and Da—"

They passed hallways and the office, stopping at a car that Aloisa did not recognize. "Whose is this?"

"Borrowed it," he replied. "Come on, get in, get in."

"From where, the junkyard? Where are we even _going_?"

"Meeting up with West and Feli," he replied tightly, bashing his palms on the wheel. "_Verdammt_, start already!"

Sitting back against the cigarette burnt seats, in a car that looked like it hadn't been driven in about forever and a day, Aloisa watched the school disappear in the distance as Gilbert stepped on the gas, muttering German obscenities under his breath as he drove faster towards God knows where. Saying that Aloisa was worried would be an understatement.

Especially when the car started to dip slightly above eight-five miles per hour.

* * *

><p><em>Monday<em>, _April 2, present, Felicita's house, 11:50 A.M…_

"Felicita didn't look too good the past few weeks."

Lovino scowled at the newspaper, not bothering to look up and lose his place.

"The hell do you mean by that?" he demanded. "Felicita's fine. But my goddamn brother isn't. He's been calling me for days and crying about how his potato daughter is going to college—"

Outside in the garden, Antonio pulled off his glove, smiling inwardly.

"And wouldn't you be sad when Felicita leaves?" he inquired calmly. "I know you hate people leaving, and you make a fuss about it, too—"

Lovino flushed crimson, burrowing his face even further behind the morning's papers. He adjusted the position of his chair, oblivious to the fact that he nearly elbowed and knocked over his entire mug of coffee in the process.

"I don't make a fuss, fucker. And it's called worrying, like a normal person," he said pointedly, the sarcasm laced extra heavily on the word 'normal'. He flipped to a new page and rather violently flattened it out.

"It's okay, Lovi, I'll stay with you forever and into the next millennium—"

"That's fucking terrifying," he returned irritably. "Forever and a millennium is a long time, Spain," he added as an afterthought.

"Yep! One thousand years, and then some more—"

"Yes, I know what millennium means, asshole. You really are an idiot, you know that?"

"Just making sure."

"Shut up. Are you done being Martha Stewart out there or what? My laptop's being a bitch and this error message keeps popping up…"

Antonio regarded him helplessly, but nonetheless, fondly. "You didn't crack it again, did you?"

"It was asking for it."

"Lovi, I can't fix it if it's snapped in half." He sighed. "Where'd you leave it?"

"Upstairs."

The screen door slid open and shut as Antonio came in, putting that possibly permanent weary beam. He made no move to move upstairs, only reached for his cup and leisurely poured himself coffee. He leaned against the kitchen countertop, seeming to be studying the contents of his cup when he was really looking at Lovino. Lovino, his Lovino, who could squeeze in obscenities in three different languages in the middle of any sentence, who blushed as easily as anything and got mad at the speed of light, who'd smacked him senseless when he'd proposed and then broke down in furious tears, thinking that the Spaniard was joking, was sitting in front of him and scrutinizing his Italian newspaper with an awfully distasteful expression like he'd been doing it for a hundred years. Comforting. That was the first word that popped into Antonio's head.

"Don't you think we've gone domestic?"

"Huh?" Antonio blinked, shaking his thoughts away. "I'm sorry?"

Lovino's voice didn't have much heat in it as he repeated his statement.

"We have a kid. For fourteen or fifteen years we've pretended to be one of those families in the 50s. You tell Felicita that you're going to work when you really mean that you'll be getting lost in your tomato maze for half the day, and I do random shit around the house except I suck at it. Do you know where I'm going with this?"

"To be honest, no." He smiled at Lovino anyway. "Do you not like it?"

The Italian's eyes bore into him before he turned away in obvious resignation.

"I give up," he muttered flippantly. "I guess you can't cure stupidity—"

The next thing he knew, Antonio had dove next to his ear, and even without looking Lovino knew his mouth must be curving upwards.

"Would you rather we go back a couple of centuries?" he murmured. "I can sail the Seven Seas and uncover the New World with a pistol in one hand and you in that dress by my side—"

"That is _not_ what I meant," Lovino interjected peevishly. "You can keep whatever sick fantasies you have to yourself." He shoved his palms in Antonio's face and brushed him off carelessly. "And no, I will not ever be wearing that dress again."

"That's a shame, Lovi. I thought you looked great in it."

"Ha." He looked away. "Do _you_ want turn back time?" he ventured accusingly.

"Never."

His tone was so determined and certain Lovino wanted to laugh and mutter back, "Me, too."

Instead, he said, "You stupid bastard."

"You know, Felicita asked me about what it was like being a nation."

Lovino did turn around this time, surprised.

"And what did you tell her?"

"I told her I was a pirate. A good pirate. And that you used to be in the Mafia—"

"You _what_? _Are you fucking kidding me_—"

"—but you were in the _good_ Mafia—"

"I am going to _kill_ you—"

"I'm joking! I'm joking—"

The Spaniard's nose was inches away from colliding with Lovino's fist until the doorbell chimed; Lovino's scrunched up expression flattened out, momentarily distracted as his clutch on Antonio's collar loosened. But the doorbell rang again urgently after a very brief pause, as though whoever was on the other side was in a rush.

"Is it Felicita?" Antonio prompted, moving towards the front door. "Did she forget something?"

"But she has the keys," Lovino said blandly, settling down and returning back to his paper.

"Then it must be Feliciano." Without any hesitation, he flung the door open, grinning openly. "_Hola_, Feli—wait. You guys aren't Feliciano."

The first man began to speak rapidly and eagerly, "Are you Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, then?" In his hands were a microphone and a pen and a small notepad, halfway cramped with indiscernible scribbling, quick and erratic. There was something rat-like about his features that made Antonio think of a mole. An ugly mole.

Antonio blinked, his smile frozen. He cocked his head to the left, trying to see behind the first man and at the camera crew and van getting ready a few yards away; the microphone followed him.

"So. Who are you—_agh_—" He slipped his hand into his pocket and took out his phone. "Sorry, I have to take this first, would you like to come inside?"

"_Toni_!" the phone shrieked. "_Toni, that's you, isn't it_?"

Antonio moved aside to let the first man in, but he stopped midway when the voice blasted in his ear. "Oh, hi, Gilbert!"

"_I'm driving to San Francisco right now with Aloisa—did you see the news?"_

"What news?"

"_The one with Feli and West! Some dumbass told the media they're nations, and they can't go back now. I'm heading to the offices and meeting them there."_

"That's impossible," he laughed. "Someone tried that in the nineties, remember? And also, you know it's illegal to drive and talk on your phone at the same time—"

Gilbert seethed, "_Not now, Spain. Listen—Francis is stuck in France for some last-minute shit, and Russia and America took the brat to the office already. England is having America send someone over to pick up their kids_—" He paused. "_You haven't met any reporters, have you?_"

Antonio could almost feel his smile literally sliding off his face. The words painted on the van seemed gaudier than ever: _FoxNews_. "That is…uh…let me call you back."

"_Whatever. I just need you to get your ass over here_—"

His finger hovered over the End Call button, and the phone disappeared into his pocket again.

"I'm afraid you have to leave now—" he began slowly, but started when he discovered that he was talking to the furniture. "Where'd you go—"

"_Bastard_! You're too close! How did you even get in?"

"But you _are_ Lovino Vargas, aren't you?" the reporter pressed insistently. "You represent the southern part of Italy, and your brother is the northern—"

"Lovi!" Antonio kicked the door shut to prevent the camera crew from squeezing in and ran to the dining room. "Don't touch my Lovi—"

"Who the hell is this?" Lovino barked, backing up against the wall, his hands twitching against the cabinets. "Get the fuck away! You've got the wrong person!" he screamed at the man, who kept on pelting the Italian with questions, ignoring Antonio completely.

"Leaving," Antonio said brusquely, his hands on the reporter's shoulders and attempting to steer him away. "You can't stay here anymore—"

The reporter didn't seem to notice Antonio; he wrenched away and placed the microphone at Lovino's mouth, simultaneously pressing a button on his tape recorder. "As South Italy, can you tell us what your brother's relationship to Ludwig Beilschmidt is—"

"You have no business knowing about that," Antonio said fiercely, his grip tightening.

The reported answered self-importantly, "The people have the right to know about the issues regarding the world—"

Lovino's hand had trailed from the cabinets to the drawer; after feeling around the compartment for a bit, he pulled out a gun (unloaded, in case Felicita ever found it; the ammo were locked away in a briefcase and placed above a closet), and mercilessly slammed the tip onto the man's forehead, his every other word enunciated by a sharp prod.

"_Get. The. Fuck. Out_," he hissed.

The reporter visibly flinched, stumbling over the table as he hastily retreated. Lovino lowered the weapon and tucked it away, breathing heavily the same the front door slammed shut. However, through the half-opened blinds, Antonio could see that the van remained parked, and another was slowly coming down the street.

He turned on Antonio, looking as if he were about to unleash his temper and shoot swears at Antonio in stead of bullets, but he stopped, his expression melting into confusion as the reporter's words resurfaced and became more distinct.

Finally, he said incredulously, "He called me South Italy."

Antonio retorted in a tone just as shocked, "You keep a gun in the drawer?"

* * *

><p><em>Monday, April 2, present, school, lunch, 12:01 P.M…<em>

"—are you even listening?"

"Uh…yeah. Definitely." Felicita raised her hands defensively at Evangeline. "Really!"

"Okay. What did I say?"

"You were talking about Alec. And his tennis tournament."

"Nope. But I'll give you points for Alec. I was talking about time traveling, since Alec brought it up last time." She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a worn, milk-yellow book and a leather-bound notepad. "So I borrowed something. The lightered colored one is the book I read from the day we went back to 1960, and this one has my mum's notes." She passed it to the brunette. "Read it."

Felicita knew she should turn Aloisa at that point, assume the position of the angry do-gooder and argue with Evangeline about the morality of stealing and lecture her on the dangers of going back into her voodoo-induced basement and whatnot. But she didn't believe in magic. She didn't know what to make of her time travel adventure last year, but she categorized that as Science-Gone-Wrong for now. Like the Powerpuff Girls.

"What's in it?" She squinted at the ink-blotted print and foreign markings. "It's written in Ye Olde Renaissance Faire English."

Evangeline gave her a strange expression when Felicita pronounced Olde as 'Oldy'.

"No, I meant look at the diagrams." She leafed through a couple of pages, stopping at a figure of a crudely drawn man stepping into an oval. "_Tempus_," Evangeline said, tapping the scribbled word in the corner. "That means 'time'."

"So?" The next page showed a more intricate sketch: and oval reflecting and showing the previous man, this time his hand disappearing into the space of where the glass pane would be. "It's a mirror," she said hesitantly.

Evangeline's finger trailed to a sentence squeezed under the picture—_Res tempus valet quantum vendi potest_.

"It doesn't mean anything, though," she said, sounding a bit uncertain. "The Internet doesn't say much. Sounds sort of familiar though."

Felicita mm-hmmed away, flipping through the earlier pages of stars inscribed within circles, written in what looked to be dark red paint, more symbols surrounding a drawing of a severely deformed man with three mouths and seven eyes, standing upright on a single leg, and the severed head of a cow.

"You said your mom wrote this?"

"I don't think my mum would draw that." She shrugged. "Maybe my dad…?"

Felicita deadpanned and showed her the page with the one-footed man.

Evangeline smacked her lips. "Right. Never mind."

She handed the booklet back and got up, digging in her backpack for her own homework. "I don't know what you're going to do with it, but I need to do my work—"

"I thought we could time travel and screw around. My dad said Mum was a delinquent decades ago. I kind of want to see that."

"Why?"

"Why? Because my mum punched him when he overheard, so it must be good."

"You should give the book back."

"I will. After I'm done."

Felicita gave her a look. "Two years ago, I remember you strongly believed that the D.C. trip was dangerous and that Adrian dating your brother was inappropriate."

"And it _was_ dangerous, but something good came out of that trip. And they _were_ being inappropriate, but they're practically married now, except without the kid."

"They haven't talked to each other for two weeks," Felicita pointed out. "Not until the last café visit."

"Oh. Well." Evangeline drummed her fingers on the brittle pages, making a small noise when the corner of the paper tore. "You know how they are. They have this on and off cycle now, like a plant or something." Her right shoulder rose. "They're in their 'off' phase."

"What does that even mean?"

"They went on their date, and apparently one of them, or maybe both, I'm not sure, said something stupid, 'cause Alec came home early looking miffed. So then they have a relapse stage back to when they first met. Like, when they wanted to kill each other. Or at least my brother does, I don't know about Adrian."

"Should we be concerned?"

"They're always like that. Adrian usually rings the doorbell within three hours of a fight. Which is sort of weird because it's been a day and he hasn't showed up. So that can only mean one thing."

Felicita raised her eyebrow. "Yes…?"

"UST," Evangeline answered breezily.

"Do I want to know what that means?"

"Unresolved sexual tension. They'll work it out later."

"That's disgusting." Felicita resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Sometimes I wonder what happened to that prim and proper British girl who threatened to kill Adrian if he did anything to Alec."

Evangeline shrugged, her attention diverted by a particularly grotesque diagram from Arthur's book. "I don't know, puberty?"

"You're seventeen."

"Then PMS."

They stayed quiet then, Evangeline immersed in the drawings and Felicita with her unfinished schoolwork ('morbidly incomplete', as Evangeline would put it). But she had zoned out thinking about colleges and fell asleep on her binder; it wasn't as if she hadn't to rush to do last minute work before, but random things kept popping in her mind, like Evangeline's mother's creepy drawings and, for some reason, her psychotic, arsonist of a babysitter from the D.C. trip. She couldn't really remember her name, but she could vividly recall her eyes, wide and milk-white, as if she'd leaped out of a horror movie—

When her cell phone began to buzz, Felicita nearly jumped out of her skin. "Hello?"

"_Felicita? Can you come over to the parking lot? It's really—_give me the damn phone, bastard—_It's really urgent, so—"_

"Dad—" She pressed the phone closer to her ear. "The parking lot…the school's parking lot? Why are you—is that mom?"

"_Yes, please come over, I can't talk long, your Mama is…Lovi? Lovi! Where did you go_—"

After a long silence, Felicita deemed the phone dead and hung up, stuffing her notebooks back and slinging the bag over her shoulder.

"I'm going to the parking lot for a bit," she said. "I think my Mom's going to kill my Dad."

Evangeline nodded absentmindedly. "Have fun."

* * *

><p><em>Monday, April 2, present, school, tennis courts, 12:13 P.M…<em>

What Alec would like to have been doing was bashing someone's, anyone's, head in.

But he was stuck with a stupid racquet and a stupid tennis ball for the time being. Oh, well. He bounced the ball a couple times and served. He had murdered those people at the tournament earlier today, kicked their wannabe asses all the way back to wherever they came from, and that was probably mainly because he pretended the ball was Adrian's face. Or James Stanton's face. He used the two of them interchangeably, now that he thought about it.

Anyways.

Alec couldn't remember a time where he had been more irritated. Maybe that one time when he'd lived in London still and met this annoying America boy who took his tea in a café. The tennis ball bounced back and Alec slammed it, shooting it to the other side and watching as his opponent tried to swipe at it before it kissed the white lines and hit the fence with a metallic clamor. Why was he this pissed, again?

Oh, yeah. Adrian had compared him to a Disney princess yesterday as he was explaining about his brother's story or something. He was not a Disney princess. He wasn't stuck in some castle waiting for some no-name asshole to save him. Disney princesses sang and cooked and had furry little friends. Alec would rather draw on his own face than sing (and that was saying a lot); he couldn't cook to save his life (instant noodles were okay); and squirrels hated him (probably because he turned the hose on them, but _only_ because they were trampling over the flower beds). And so in response Alec had said some choice words in French and promptly left the restaurant.

So what was he doing now? Asserting his manliness by rocketing tennis balls at unsuspecting bystanders?

That was _so_ lame.

Whatever. Tennis balls did hurt.

He stared at the ground, waiting for the next player to step up, bouncing a ball idly when his new opponent called over smugly, "Nice shorts, Alec."

No way.

"Oh, hell no," Alec breathed. Even with the glare of the sun beating down and obscuring his vision, there was no mistaking that voice. "Get the hell off my court!"

Adrian only pulled a face, as if he were apologetic.

"Your court, Alec? Isn't that a little presumptuous of you?"

"I don't need to see your face this early!"

"Oh." Adrian shrugged, unaffected. "You wanna see it at night?"

"_No_."

The crowd watched on interestedly as the two volleyed their insults back and forth; they had seen Adrian around Alec multiple times afterschool, but they were not in any way this violent. The female students who'd thought the two were together observed them carefully, looking nonplussed; the tennis team acted as if this were an everyday occurrence, waiting for Alec to either win or finish blowing his fuse.

"I'm not playing," Alec said with venom.

"Because you'll lose?"

"No. Because you are a moron and I don't have time to waste."

"Hey, your insults downgraded from wanker to moron. That means your mood's improved, right?"

Alec visibly flinched, but he turned around because he was going to leave with his dignity intact like a _gentleman_—until a tennis ball flew at him and hit him on the back.

"_What the hell was that for_?"

"That wasn't me."

"How can that not be you?" Alec sputtered indignantly. Adrian was standing there, smiling benignly, and that was about when he realized that Adrian was doing it on purpose. He threw his hands up in defeat, scowling as viciously as he could.

"Okay! Fine! I'll play your game!"

"I knew it—"

"I will _annihilate_ you."

They didn't see the two black sedans pulling up by the curb, Alec didn't see the suited men stalk up to them as he tried to push Adrian's face away and wrestle out of his embrace. But when he did look up, he stopped struggling long enough to notice the flip phone the man offered him ("Alec Bonnefoy? You have a call from Mr. Kirkland."), accepting it dumbly without a word and pressed it against his ear. "Hello…?"

Arthur sounded tinny and far as he said tightly, "_Go in the car. Bring Evangeline and Alfred's boys, too."_

He jabbed Adrian in the chest with his elbow and stepped away. "Why? Where are we going?"

"_I believe it to be best if I tell you face-to-face_."

"But…" Alec turned his back on the man (because honestly? he was freaking Alec out, what with his expressionless eyes boring into Alec's face behind sunglasses), nearly whispering. "Why do we have to leave? What's happening?"

His voice was heavy. "_Alec, get in the car_—"

"Is this a joke? Because if it is then it's not funny—"

"_Alec_." Arthur's tone was sharp and commanding but weary, and for the first time Alec wondered exactly how old his parents were. "_Some loon had made an assassination attempt on Germany. I want you to get your sister and America's children and leave_ now."

And all Alec could manage to get out was a breathless, "Oh."


End file.
